


Mealtime

by kasarin



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 02:07:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21236357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kasarin/pseuds/kasarin
Summary: After his injury, Maine enjoys eating alone. Unfortunately, York seems determined to keep him company.





	Mealtime

Mealtimes aboard the _Mother of Invention_ are strictly regimented. It's necessary to keep operations flowing smoothly and to keep the cooks from organizing a mutiny. The ship is the size of a small city; how would it function if everyone decided that "lunchtime" meant 1200 or 1230? The crew sticks to tightly controlled schedules, and the Freelancers themselves are no different. If someone doesn't like their assigned mealtime, they can suck it up or stop eating.

Maine likes his mealtimes. They're closer together than most people's — four hours between breakfast and lunch, then four more between lunch and dinner — but that's because Maine has an equally strict resting schedule. Not sleeping: _resting_. Getting off his feet and avoiding strenuous activity. Letting his body recover from the damage left by one bullet in the chest and nine in the neck.

He doesn't like the mandatory rest periods. Doesn't like staring at his data pad while his body itches to move. Doesn't like being confined by F.I.L.S.S.'s seemingly infallible monitoring programs.

So, Maine takes what pleasure he can from his mealtimes. They're quiet, for the most part. Just him and some crew members. He doesn't have to deal with double-digit Freelancers staring at his scars. Doesn't have to eat fast to avoid attracting suspicion from his teammates.

He always ate fast before getting shot to shit. A habit born from years and years and _years_ in combat zones. Eat fast or die hungry.

These days, he eats slowly. It's still challenging to chew. Still hurts to swallow, even though the doctors say it should be fine. Maybe it is. Maybe the pain is just in his head. Still hurts like a bitch.

Point is, mealtimes are structured. They're controlled. They're an essential part of the well-oiled machine that is Project Freelancer. And there's absolutely no fucking reason that Maine should be eating alongside any of his perfectly healthy teammates.

"Hey, Maine. How's it going?"

And yet somehow, York is sitting down across from him.

Maine doesn't answer. He stares at York, confused. Then he looks at the clock on the wall, just to make sure he didn't somehow fuck up his schedule. It shows him that it's midafternoon, as it should be. Then he turns back to York and raises an eyebrow.

"Oh, I got a late lunch. No biggie."

It _is_ a biggie. It's a biggie because now York is sitting with _him_. And unlike Wash, who can chatter on with minimal input, or Wyoming, who can sit in perfectly companionable silence, York likes to have conversations. York will expect responses. York will notice how slowly Maine eats and will have the gall to comment on it.

"So, how've you been? Haven't seen you around lately."

Maine resists the impulse to look at York's bad eye — the one that Maine himself blinded with a poorly thrown grenade. He shrugs and turns his attention to his food. Starts shoveling it down as quick as he can without choking.

"I noticed that they've got you on a pretty different schedule. We miss seeing you around."

It takes effort not to bristle at that line of bullshit. Maine stabs at his food and doesn't respond. Hopes that York will take the hint and move on.

It doesn't work. York keeps prattling on, giving him "updates" about their teammates. Fills him in on the latest gossip, like that's something Maine's ever cared about. Tells him about Delta, as though Maine gives a shit. Talks and talks until Maine finishes wolfing down his food and gets up to leave.

"Hey man, it was nice catching up. See you around, all right?"

Maine snorts and keeps on walking. He should be so unlucky.

Turns out, Maine _is_ that unlucky. It's not two days later that York plops down across from him and starts chattering again. Maine dismisses it as a shitty coincidence and leaves when York is midway through some story about the twins.

A day later, York sits across from him a third time. Maine stares in open confusion as York launches right back into the same damn story. This time, Maine leaves without even finishing his meal.

Asking F.I.L.S.S. about York's mealtimes gets him nowhere. Asking her if he can change his own schedule yields a firm "no" and a canned lecture about the importance of structure.

The fourth time that York slides into the seat across from him, Maine loses his patience. He drops his cutlery and gestures between them, then gives York the best _"what the fuck is this"_ expression he can muster.

"What? Can't a guy enjoy a meal with his teammate?"

It's a bullshit response, and Maine treats it accordingly. He looks York dead in the eye, then grabs hold of York's tray and slides it straight off the table.

"Jesus, Maine!" York exclaims above the clatter, and he has the audacity to look hurt. "I'm just trying to help."

Maine snarls, abandons his food, and strides from the mess hall. He doesn't need help. And even if he did, it wouldn't be from _York_, of all fucking people.

Five days pass. Maine thinks that he made his point. And then York comes trotting back, like some kind of stupid, relentless dog.

"Look, man. We need to talk, and this is the only time we can do it."

Maine glowers as York takes a seat. This time, the stubborn fucker doesn't even have a tray that Maine can throw. Maine clutches the edges of his own tray, weighing the merits of taking it to another table versus throwing the food in York's face.

"Seriously, don't make me turn this into a daily thing. I know you need to eat."

It's true, and not just for the obvious survival reasons. Maine needs to eat to regain the weight he lost in the hospital. He needs to eat because he's too thin for his frame, and his muscles are slowly starving without the extra nutrients.

But the way York _looks_ at him when he says it sets Maine's teeth on edge. Makes him wonder if York knows what's in his medical file, or if it's just a shrewd guess.

Whatever the case, York's words keep Maine in place for a few seconds. And evidently, that's all the time York needs to launch into a speech.

"I wanted to thank you. You saved Carolina's life on the freeway, and you saved both of our lives when we were falling off that tower. Believe me when I say that our odds for survival were slim at best. I don't know what we would've done if you hadn't been there."

Maine stares. He wonders if he looks as confused as he feels, because he has no fucking idea where this is coming from. No idea what he's supposed to do with gratitude from _York_, of all people.

And York, the man of endless words, keeps going. "I know we don't always agree on things, and I know we've got some history to work out. But I needed to tell you that. And I want to let you know that I'm here if you need anything."

Unconsciously, Maine's hands curl into fists. He doesn't notice it until York glances down at them, then meets Maine's eyes again.

"I'm not saying you _do_ need anything, buddy. I'm just saying help's here if you want it. I mean … shit, Maine, you almost died."

Maine snorts in contempt. They're Freelancers: they've all almost died. Then he stares directly at York's blind eye. Stares at the injury that probably would've killed York, if Texas hadn't intervened.

York shifts uncomfortably. Maine relents with a bitter sense of victory.

"Like I said, we've got some history to work out."

If he's perfectly honest, Maine knows it's true. But he doesn't feel like being generous. He feels cornered, and the only thing to do when cornered is to fight back.

So Maine snorts again and raises his eyebrows. Says as best he can without words, _"Do we?"_

It works. Maine watches the slight tightening of York's jaw. Watches the flickers of frustration that York tries to hide.

"I'm not here to pick a fight, man."

Maine doesn't care. He'll pick it for both of them. He'd rather fight than talk about this shit any day.

But as he watches, York's good eye seems to focus on something distant. He gets an expression like he's listening to something else. And just like that, York regains his cool.

Maine tilts his head slightly, curious despite himself. Was York talking to Delta? Is that what it looks like from the outside when someone listens to their A.I.?

"You should eat your food, buddy. It's getting cold."

Maine looks down at his tray. It's true: the food is getting cold, and he knows that he needs to eat. He's hungry enough that he could eat twice this, if it wouldn't hurt so fucking much.

Instead, Maine shoves the tray at York and stalks from the mess hall. It ought to make him feel better, but all he feels is bitter and confused.

When York sits down with him for the sixth time, Maine can't even pretend to be surprised. He just eyes York warily, and York holds his hands up in a sign of surrender.

"Woah, no need for hostility. We don't even have to talk if you don't want to."

Maine couldn't talk even if he _did_ want to. He curls his lip and turns his attention to his food. Does his best to eat quickly and ignore his unwanted companion.

True to his word, York stays quiet. Somehow, it's even _worse_ than hearing York talk. There's nothing companionable or comfortable about it. It's just tense, angry silence that York seems determined to ignore.

Maine can't fucking figure it out. He doesn't know why York won't leave him alone. He ends up sitting with his hands clenched into tight fists, staring at food that he's unable to swallow past the knot of frustration in his throat.

And York just _stays_. Just sits there in perfect silence long after his food's gone. Just fucking _sits there_ until mealtime's done, then smiles as he walks away.

What Maine wouldn't give for an excuse to punch that smile off York's face. What he wouldn't give to understand why York's doing this.

"You're alone a lot these days, huh?"

Weeks have passed, and Maine's long since lost track of how many times York's sat down across from him. He's lost track of the ways he's tried to get York to back off. Physical violence seems like the only option, but York never gives him an excuse to use it.

Too bad York's so fucking good at his job. Maine knows he can't attack the Project's third-highest ranking Agent without serious consequences.

When York asks that question, Maine looks up from beneath his eyebrows to give his most bitter glare. He'd be alone a lot more if York would back the fuck off. He'd _prefer_ that.

"I've been keeping an eye on your schedule. They've got you real isolated, man."

Maine doesn't ask how York got access to his schedule. He knows that York could hack into just about anything if he put his mind to it. All Maine wonders is _why_ York gives a shit about this.

"I was thinking, maybe we could meet up with a couple of the others. Wash's been real worried about you. Whaddaya say? You, me, Carolina, and Wash?"

Team A, back together again. All they'd need is Texas showing up out of nowhere.

Maine doesn't say it, of course. He can't say it. All he does is shake his head.

"You don't wanna see them?"

He doesn't want to talk about this. Doesn't want to explain how shitty it feels when Carolina looks at him with guilt-filled eyes. Doesn't want anyone to witness Wash's attempts to understand his broken speech. Doesn't want to spend more time with York, who _should_ hate him.

Maine shakes his head again and shoves his food around his plate. Tries to convince himself to choke it down.

"I'm just saying, it's not good for you to be so isolated. When's the last time you spent quality time with someone other than me?"

Again, Maine glares at York from beneath his eyebrows. York appears completely unfazed, which just adds insult to injury.

"Look, I'll make you a deal. You schedule some time to hang out with someone, and I'll cut back on these mealtime visits."

Maine can't help himself. His head jerks up, and he knows there's a hopeful _"really?"_ on his face.

York raises a hand. "Not completely! I'm still gonna pop in sometimes. But I'll back off. Promise."

It sounds too good to be true. If he were less desperate to get York away from him, Maine might suspect a trap. But as it is, he just nods.

Fine, he'll schedule some time. Fine, he'll be social. _Fine_, as long as York leaves him in peace.

York laughs. Maine presses his lips together and tells himself, for the umpteenth time, not to shake York until answers fall out. Then York smiles at him — a big, open, friendly smile — and Maine resumes eating as fast as he can.

Maine's true to his word, in some ways. He does hang out with someone, although he's not the one who schedules it. Sigma melts into his mind and curls around his every thought, and Maine is never, ever alone.

York sits with Maine twice more before Sigma's constant presence sends him away. Maine marvels at the silence. Listens as Sigma gradually fills it with crackling fire and quiet questions in that smooth, soothing voice. Listens to the thoughts and ideas that come first from Sigma's mind, and then seem to come from both of them.

Because they are one mind, aren't they? Both broken and torn apart in so many ways, but together? Together, they are stronger. Together, they are unbeatable.

Together, they are the Meta.

**Author's Note:**

> It is a crime that we didn't get more of Maine and York. Apparently, I'm here to help fix it.
> 
> First time writing York! Shout out to my buddy [aarid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aarid/profile) for being my beta. ♥


End file.
